


never lose me to the wind

by noun



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Court Politics, Desire, F/M, Misuse of Conlang, Rumors, Societal Norms, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:48:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21881275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noun/pseuds/noun
Summary: “A selection of bedding has been prepared for your approval,” Csevet said, a little quieter. There was no one to hear but Beshlar and Cala. “You have no appointments for the rest of the evening, if you would like to make your choices now.”Maia’s ears twitched.“Why should we make the choice, and not our Empress?” he asked, his voice unchanged. He saw Cala glance at Csevet, his brow furrowed.Csevet hesitated, his answer caught in his mouth, looking at Cala. Maia had learned that patience would nearly always lead to a fuller answer than prompting did, but Csevet said nothing even four heartbeats in. It was Cala who relieved his secretary.“As Cstherio Zhasan’s scent would taint the items and make you more likely to reject them during your confinement, it would be best that you alone handle them, Serenity.”
Relationships: Csethiro Ceredin/Maia Drazhar
Comments: 5
Kudos: 85
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	never lose me to the wind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dontneedaclassroom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontneedaclassroom/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, and please forgive my conlang fumbles, best efforts at formal/informal pronouns, and naming conventions. 
> 
> Title from Andrea Gibson's How It Ends.

The nesting-room was extraordinary, tucked away so cleverly into the wall that Maia would not have guessed it was there. He might have even thought the keyhole just a careless gap in the carved facade, a bloom with just a little too much space between the petals.

Inside, he can see beautifully inlaid wood floors, the corner of the bed platform with its low railing. Propriety and hesitance to disturb the space alike keep him from dropping to his knees and exploring further.

Maia was particularly fond of the security of the marble walls hidden behind the intricate wood paneling. Anyone who would have needed to enter would have needed to stoop to do so, placing the csaivu at clear and great advantage, should their space be encroached upon. Even more intimate was the absolute lack of grilles, so strange in the Alcethmeret. But what brooding csaivu would permit themselves to be so exposed? What anmuru would allow it? No, in this, the Untheileneise Court had yielded to certain facts of nature, and had left this alone.

Still, Maia supposed wryly, Edrethelema the Third had put the imperial nesting-room in the quarters of the Emperor, where the heirs and Empress could be guarded easily. The concession was only a small one. But even a careless observer could not fail to note the lack of musty air when the door was open. The nesting-room had not been used in many years.

Csevet pushed the hidden door closed, and Maia was pleased to note how utterly seamless the wall appeared. The carving disguised the door entirely, and while there was no thump as the door swung shut, there was enough of a weight to it that Maia felt assured that nothing short of a battering-ram would open it.

“Serenity, there is a lever upon the inside of the door, should the csaivu wish to open it while inside,” Csevet finished. “Otherwise, it is all but watertight.”

He offered Maia the key. It was shaped like a petal, sliding in neatly among the others in the carving. Maia realized the flower-lock was a water-lily for Csaivo, a clever way to honor her patronage. He took it in his open palms and threaded the eye through the chain on which he kept his nesecho, tucking both back into the folds of his robes.

“A selection of bedding has been prepared for your approval,” Csevet said, a little quieter. There was no one to hear but Beshlar and Cala. “You have no appointments for the rest of the evening, if you would like to make your choices now.” 

Maia’s ears twitched.

“Why should we make the choice, and not our Empress?” he asked, his voice unchanged. He saw Cala glance at Csevet, his brow furrowed.

Csevet hesitated, his answer caught in his mouth, looking at Cala. Maia had learned that patience would nearly always lead to a fuller answer than prompting did, but Csevet said nothing even four heartbeats in. It was Cala who relieved his secretary.

“As Cstherio Zhasan’s scent would taint the items and make you more likely to reject them during your confinement, it would be best that you alone handle them, Serenity.”

* * *

“They think I am,” and he closed one hand over the other, tight over his rings, the fittings on the moonstones sharp enough nearly to cut.

“That thou’rt an aberration,” Cstherio said, and at his flinch, she rose from her seat at her desk and came before him, where he sat on the bed. She was on her knees in an instant and gazing up. “Oh, Maia, damn my fool mouth—no, forgive me,” and she cupped his face in her hands and held him there until he looked at her. “Thou’rt _perfectly_ formed.”

Cstherio said it so urgently that it wrung belief from him. And then, of course, she was on her knees, her sleeping robes split and spread out on the floor like some silk-petaled flower. The image stuck in his mind, wrenching him from question of what it _meant_ that even his secretary thought him to be csaivu, and instead lured him towards other memories of Cstherio kneeling, of the feeling of her breath along his thigh—

Clarity came back to him only by the shock of the intensity of such feelings, sliding down his spine like snow down the back of one’s jacket. While the particulars of Csevet’s tour had been off, the timing of it had been accurate.

Cstherio’s thumbs brushed over his cheeks, and she stood, taking a very purposeful step back and tucking her hands into her sleeves.

“Hast thou felt differently, these last few days?” he asked, softly.

“No,” she admitted. “My sisters have said it comes like a summer storm. Wilt not know until it is here, though _thou’rt_ affected long before.”

Her hair was loosely braided for sleep, and she chewed at the side of one finely manicured nail with the distraction of someone not wanting at all to follow their current path of thought. Maia had to agree with her statement, though he had no personal experience with csaivu. His mother, unmedicated and unsoothed, had turned to fevers that had slowly sapped her health and spirit. Cstherio had explained many of the particulars to him once they had the privacy of the marriage bed, patched even his own misunderstanding about his own nature.

She had, she informed him primly, read every book on the subject that she could, once she’d learned she was csaivu. Even the ones that were not intended for young noblewomen. Even those that described anmuru. Maia’s education had begun and ended with Setheris locking him in his rooms until the madness brought on by the quickly dismissed maidservant had passed, and then telling him to never speak of it again.

Without Cstherio, he might have needed to turn to Kiru, or, possibly worse, Csevet for the answers he needed. As it was, the conversation now made him keenly aware of Kiru’s presence in the far corner. He had refrained from telling Csetherio about the earlier incident while Beshlar and Cala were still on duty.

“Thou might stay away from the court until it is passed,” Maia offered. He had not finished speaking before Cstherio shook her head and sent her braid thrashing. 

“If even Csevet thinkest thou’rt csaivu, then we canst allow rumors to grow, when we might—”

“Might allowest thee to be embarrassed for mine own gain?” Maia interrupted, sharper than he intended.

Again, Cstherio shook her head, though less vigorously. “Thou’rt not required to be concerned for my reputation. Ere hast some of the court supposed me anmuru; my hobbies do nothing to soothe the rumors, nor dost mine aunt being such. Shalt hook two fish on one line, if thou allowest a public indiscretion.” She waited a moment, then sighed before continuing. “Csoru started the rumor when we were barely blooded. Thinkest her father wanted Varenechibel for her even then, and hadst told her being csaivu would make it more likely, though only your mother had been csaivu among all his wives before. She thought _me_ a challenge to her.”

“He... was not even anmuru,” Maia said. “What need had he of a csaivu?”

 _After thy mother_ , he thought, and left unsaid.

Cstherio shrugged, her shoulder exposed by slipping silk. It helped distract him a little. “Csaivu bring good fortune to a household.”

“But only female csaivu,” Maia corrected, and Cstherio nodded along, and stepped back towards him. He held out a hand. Surely it would not provoke too great a fever in him. They had time before her presence alone drove him insensate. He did not fear it, not with her. It was not the locked door that scared had him in Edonomee. No, it had been the drive to break down the door, to hunt and pursue. 

“Csoru was scolded most heartily for starting such a rumor, but ere hast it lingered.” She took his hand matter-of-fact and slowly started to ease his rings off, leaving only his seal be.

“Thou’rt, perhaps, playing with fire?” Maia risked. The rings plinked as she dropped them into a bowl by their bed. His edocharei would fetch them, unseen, and restore them to their proper places. 

“I do not fear thee. Thy concern is unfounded,” she said, and turned her head so he could see her smile. “However, if thou wouldst indulge me…”

“Anything,” he vowed, and then winced at the abruptness of his own words. _Foolish_ , the not-Setheris voice said. _Ah, but we are in true danger if we cannot be so open-handed with Cstherio_ , he countered. Newlywed indulgence was to be expected, and he was gratified in her pause before she nodded, formal in her degree of acceptance of his offer. No, he could place his trust in her.

“Your rule would certainly be further stabilized by the birth of an heir,” she began, and he understood at once in her pronouns before the words themselves. “But we would have a little longer with just you.”

“Well,” Cstherio amended immediately. “What small portion of your time we already jealously possess _now_ , Serenity.”

“It is yours,” Maia said, and turned his hand to catch her hand up and bring it to his lips. From behind her pale white lashes, the dark swell of her eye was even more mesmerizing. 

“Next year,” Cstherio said, and this was more a vow to herself. She sat beside him, thighs nearly touching. Maia only interlaced their fingers. Her head rested on his shoulder, her pale hair tumbling over the white of his sleeping-robes.

“When dost thou plan to...?” he asked.

“Embarrass myself?” Cstherio considered for a moment. “Hearest thou a petition from Lord Pashavar tomorrow afternoon in the Michen’theileian? Seemst to recall Csevet saying so. Lord Pashavar mindeth not the interruption if he is part of the conspiracy, and less if his granddaughter is made one of my household.”

At his raised brow, Cstherio shrugged. “Wouldst have done it anyway. Art fond of her. Sooth, needst do nothing for him in return; _he_ is fond of _you_.”

She possessed all the skill of someone raised in the Untheileneise Court, and he was very glad to have it turned to their benefit. 

“Wilt thou spend the night?” he asked. Her fingers were still in his. But there was space between them elsewhere, and they remained apart for all their immediate proximity.

“No,” she said, and Maia did not pretend it did not wound him. They had spent many nights apart since being wed, when he was too busy to retire when she did, or the reverse, and there was comfort to be found in her presence alone. Tonight, though, would feel like an absence.

“Tomorrow, and several nights after,” Cstherio said. She squeezed his hand. “Thou wilt be sick of me by the time I am through it. Hast thou all measures in place for thine brief absence?”

“Yes,” Maia said. He was made uneasy by the idea, but when the alternative was Cstherio in pain or incapacitated, there was no other option.

Cstherio untangled her hand, and stood. She patted his knee. “Worry not. Wilt find thou abed with paperwork instead of thy wife by the second day.”

He smiled, watching her smooth out her robes with her palms, and then remembered the key, reaching for the string on which it and his nesecho hung. He unhooked the petal-key, and held it out.

It fell into her outreached palm.

“Next year,” she said again, softer this time.

“Next year,” Maia agreed, firm.

* * *

His audiences in the Michen’theileian proceeded at the normal pace. He knew that Cstherio would appear in the midst of Lord Pashavar’s. This meant very little. Audiences occured in the order that the petitions had been made to the emperor, not in order of precedence of petitioners. All citizens of the Elflands were equal in this one small way. 

Furthermore, his conscience would have never allowed him to shirk his duty; he would listen and render judgement as carefully with all of them. Daydreaming about Cstherio, worrying about what she had planned— both of these had very little weight against villages presenting a land dispute, or the two daughters presenting their case for a fair share of inheritance against their brother’s claim.

He spent every ounce of his control on making himself behave as if he had not woken on Cstherio’s side of the bed that morning, aching and longing to run to her apartments, to throw open the doors and find her wherever she had hidden herself, plans be damned.

Instead, he stood still and silent while his edocharei dressed him, resisting the unfamiliar urge to snap; loathing the feel of silk against his skin. He listened, he rendered judgement, and he knew it all to be just, and not something for which he would feel shame later. Also ignored were the looks Belshar and Cala kept giving him. Apparently Kiru had not decided to pass along anything she had overheard.

And when Lord Pashavar was announced, Maia sat taller in his throne, his attention narrowing to the older elf and the girl beside him, surely no older than thirteen.

“Serenity,” Lord Pashavar began. “May I present my granddaughter, Dach’osmin Parmeno Pashavaran, for your approval.”

Maia gave him a nod for permission to continue, and Lord Pashavar began to list her patrilineal descent. The requirement was ten generations or to the beneficiary of the original writ of nobility, whichever came first. Lord Pashavar’s career as a Witness meant that he was at least not a poor speaker.

But at the first sign of a commotion to his left, Maia’s attention snapped. He was not sure if she would be in the crowd at all, but he looked for her among all the courtiers, shifting around some unknown disturbance.

By the time she came into sight, Lord Pashavar had paused in his recitation to follow his emperor’s gaze. The crowd left a respectful circle of space around Cstherio Zhasan, though that may have been the Untheilenise Guard that trailed her. Ar first, Maia did not understand. Cstherio was dressed respectably. The only odd thing Maia could spot was how her hair was unornamented but for a pair of tashin sticks.

Several people in the crowd, closer to Cstherio, seemed to have odder reactions. A few gazed too long for Maia’s comfort. One or two women whispered behind hands or fans. Maia did not wholly understand them until a moment later, when the scent reached him.

Lord Pashavar was left with his granddaughter on the dais while Maia descended the dais, Belshar and Cala not far behind. He was only faintly aware of how the crowd further receded at his approach. 

_Thou’rt too eager_ , said the voice, but the thought that it was _Cstherio_ , and something was wrong, cut through any reminder of propriety. He was moving too quickly, and his halt before her was sudden in the cessation of movement, as was how he grabbed her hand, cupping it between his own.  
  
He barely remembered to use the formal tense.

“You are well?” he asked, and his voice was harsh to his own ear. There was the faint glow of sweat on her forehead, and her hand was clasped too tightly about his own. Her eyes were over-bright, and darted from his face to something behind him, then back.

“We are well,” Cstherio said. How red the rosebud of her mouth was, and how pink her cheeks! Her breathing was too fast for his liking, nearer to telling of exertion than the rest she ought to have been enjoying.

“You are _unwell_ ,” Maia corrected, swept up in concern, singular and all-encompassing. Cstherio frowned, and opened her mouth as if to stage a disagreement.

Belshar said, “Serenity,” and Maia rounded on him, snarling, only to be reminder that if he wished to go after Belshar, he would need to release Cstherio’s hand, an unacceptable option.

“Ah,” said Cala, who had wisely remained a few steps behind. 

“Hm,” said Lord Pashvar, having descended the dais, wisely having left his granddaughter behind.

Days later, after both he and Cstherio returned to the Untheileneise Court, he was relieved to find that the rumors were entirely ended, if replaced by newer, less seemly ones.

Cstherio merely seemed satisfied that the paperwork had been kept away until noon on the second day.


End file.
